


My True Love Gave to Me (Six Jars of Chutney)

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Family Feels, Food, Getting Together, Good Dad Draco, Grocery Shopping, HP Joggers Fest, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Kitchen handjobs, M/M, Parenthood, festive joggers, good dad Harry, implied background scorbus, marks & spencer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: On his first post-divorce Christmas Eve without his children, Harry goes to Marks & Spencer hoping to find a bit of his past; what he finds instead is a future.





	My True Love Gave to Me (Six Jars of Chutney)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HP Joggers Festive Drarry mini fest. I had so much fun writing this and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> thank you so much gingertodgers for the britpick, thealmostrhetorical for talking to me forever about marks & spencer and aibidil for the wonderful beta.

Kings Road was lined with hordes of people, each one so absorbed in their destination they didn’t notice Harry walking beside them, his hands shoved in his the pockets of his jumper and his head turned down. He smiled to himself—enjoying the brief anonymity—enjoying the feeling of being one more nameless person in the crowd.

The street lights were brighter than the snow, which was tinged brown on the pavement as it crunched beneath the boots of each passerby. Harry looked at his trainers, wiggling his freezing toes and wishing he’d worn boots. He wishes he’d worn anything besides what he was wearing, actually. It was fucking freezing and it’d started to snow, neither of which Harry had been prepared for.

He’d simply wanted to pop round to the supermarket for a few things. The inside of his house had been warm and cozy, a fire burning in all three fireplaces, the wireless playing Christmas music and the fairy lights twinkling on the tree. But by the time eight o’clock rolled around, Harry’s stomach was growling louder than a erumpent in heat, and the calmness in his home, rather than peaceful, had started to feel oppressive.

He missed James loudly singing Christmas carols—periodically changing the words to something vulgar when he thought Harry wasn’t listening. He missed Albus curled up in the plush green armchair—the first piece of furniture he’d bought after he and Ginny divorced four years prior—by the tree reading and pretending not to be paying attention to anyone else but secretly smiling behind his book every time James’s singing got worse. He missed Lily sitting curled up next to him on the sofa whispering all her brother’s secrets.

He missed knowing that when midnight came there would be no Albus to putter into the kitchen and find him sitting at the kitchen table alone in the dark, like he had the last three years in a row, pretending he couldn’t sleep and making them both extra large cups of hot cocoa with heaps of marshmallows. He thought perhaps he and Albus were so alike it made it hard for them to see eye to eye sometimes. But then they’d have moments like that, when he and Albus would drop their empty cocoa mugs into the kitchen sink and wordlessly meander into the living room to plop down onto the sofa together, sharing a bag of Percy pigs and a blanket as Albus talked to Harry as freely at fifteen as he had at five, that made him think perhaps he wasn’t failing at this dad thing after all. Each year Albus would fall asleep on the sofa, his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry would close his eyes and think that for all the pain he’d seen, all the trouble he’d been through and all the mistakes he’d made, he wouldn’t change a single thing because he loved his life and his children.

He missed knowing that James would be the first one awake, bounding down the stairs three at a time at six in the morning hollering, “Merry Christmas!” as he jumped on top of a still-sleeping Albus. He would miss making tea and toast while James and Albus wrestled amongst the wrapped gifts, knowing Lily would be down any moment to help him. It wouldn’t be much breakfast, because the children always did a big thing with Ginny on Christmas morning, and he’d know she’d be round to collect the kids soon. But for the first hour or so on Christmas morning when the light was still filtering in the window, for just a little while every year, Harry could pretend that even as things changed, some things would always be the same. His kids would always be there, munching on toast as they filled the living room with bows, paper, and more laughter than Harry’s heart could contain. 

Of course, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t see the kids later. Even after the divorce, the Weasleys were his family; they always would be. Christmas Eve was for Harry and the kids, Christmas morning was with Ginny, and Christmas Day was always a joyously loud affair at the Burrow. He and Ginny were on great terms, and though it’d been a bit of a rough transition those first few months after their separation as they each struggled to find their footing and autonomy while being there for the kids, Harry felt content in the knowledge that they were closer now than they’d ever been, even while married. 

So things in Harry’s life were good, great really. Most days his work as Head Auror kept him fairly busy and during the school year he had a standing lunch date with Ron at the Ten Bells on Wednesdays, Thursday lunch was always with Hermione in her office, and Saturday they alternated hosting nights for takeaway and telly. In the summers Harry took advantage of his Ministry seniority and substantially cut back on his hours, often working from home so he could sit in the garden filling out reports as the sounds of his children enjoying lazy summer afternoons warmed him as much as the midday sun.

But sometimes, well, sometimes Harry got lonely.

The kids were getting older. James was going to be eighteen next year, already in his last year at Hogwarts and on the fast track to professional Quidditch and a flat of his own as soon as he left Hogwarts. Albus was fifteen now and as introverted as ever, constantly insisting he didn’t need his parents for anything, even if Harry knew most of that was a facade. Harry also privately suspected Albus was in the throes of young love, even if he would rather die than admit it to Harry or Ginny. And Lily, well Lily was no helpless little girl. She might have been only eleven, but she was as fierce as Ginny and as obstinate as Harry, and though she was young still, Harry knew she didn’t need him in the same ways she had before. He was proud of his kids, and of himself for how far they'd all come. But the lingering knowledge that in a few years’ time his home would be permanently empty sometimes made Harry ache with a kind of loneliness he hadn’t known in decades.

This year was Harry’s first year since James was born without his kids on Christmas. James had got it in his head that since it was his last year, he wanted to spend it at Hogwarts. Harry was pretty sure it had something to do with his recent acquisition of the Invisibility Cloak, which Harry had given him for his seventeenth birthday, and his desire to peruse Hogwarts without his classmates around. Harry made sure not to ask questions since the less he knew, the better; plausible deniability was best in these situations. Though James would always be Harry’s boy and was still at school, legally he was an adult, and Harry was doing his best to give him breathing room to grow and make his own mistakes.

Of course once Lily learned that James would be staying at school over the Christmas holidays, she’d immediately sent Harry a letter begging to be allowed to stay. Harry knew she loved Hogwarts as much as he always had and idolized her eldest brother something fierce. As expected, two days later he’d received a fairly accusatory letter from Albus wondering why both his siblings were allowed to spend Christmas at Hogwarts and not him. Harry had secretly hoped that at least Albus would want to spend Christmas with Harry, but he swallowed down the sting and sent off a letter letting Albus know he was more than welcome to come home to Harry or to stay at Hogwarts and that Harry would support either choice. He’d got a very short reply the next day that said Albus would be staying at Hogwarts with a hastily scribbled _p.s. I love you_ at the bottom.

Though Harry had been more than a bit disappointed by the unexpected change of plans, he’d denied it to everyone, including Ron and Hermione who’d tried to get him to come to theirs. He didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him, or to encroach on anyone else’s holiday traditions. Even Ginny had invited him to come have Christmas Eve dinner with her and her new husband at the Burrow, but Harry had declined. It wasn’t that he felt unwelcome, exactly, just that making new plans without his kids felt too permanent, as if accepting that invitation this year might indicate that it could be his new Christmas Eve _normal_ —and that wasn’t something Harry felt prepared to do.

He’d thought he could handle one Christmas Eve alone, but by half four he’d been crawling the walls with boredom, the lack of chatter and absence of footsteps making the house feel far too silent, even with the Christmas carols playing on the wireless. So he’d jumped up off the sofa, thrown his jumper on, cast a quick warming charm that hopefully wouldn’t wear off before he got back home, and left the house. A short walk later, he found himself on Oxford Street, almost as if his feet had led them there of their own accord. 

He paused on the pavement, the wind nipping his nose and making goosebumps on his legs; his joggers were definitely too thin to have worn for an afternoon walk. 

The window was as extravagant as ever. Harry remembered with fondness the one time he’d gone with Aunt Petunia because she’d had some Christmas shopping to do in London and decided to pick up a few extra posh nibbles for Christmas dinner before they went home. Vernon had been busy with a last-minute “work commitment” (that was definitely taking place in the pub), Dudley had been at a sleepover and Mrs. Figg unavailable. Petunia had been horrified to learn she’d have to take Harry all the way to London with her and complained the entire car trip there, reminding him not to be a nuisance or touch anything. And then something strange had happened. They’d got to London and Petunia had almost forgotten she didn’t like Harry. She held his hand as they walked down the pavement, smiled when someone told her how well behaved her son was, and when she picked up her food order from Marks & Spencer she’d added a packet of Percy Pigs to the order and without saying a word handed them to Harry on the car ride home with strict orders to dispose of the packet before they got home and not breathe a word about the sweets to Dudley or Vernon. Almost as if she was shocked by her own actions, she’d kept silent the entire car ride home, instead letting the radio play Christmas music to fill the silence. Harry’d sat in the backseat with the first and only packet of sweets of his life, eventually letting his full tummy and the Christmas music lull him to sleep.

Of course, he’d been woken up not half an hour later by Dudley shoving him out of the car and into the snow and Petunia barking at him to make himself useful and carry the shopping into the house. But the memory of the the magical storefront window and the sweets stayed with Harry for a long time.

He’d not realized until his kids were much older that the reason he’d taken so much joy in bringing them to Marks & Spencer to pick out a treat and a gift for their mum at the holidays was because his one and only trip there had been the one time in his life he’d thought perhaps he might’ve been loved.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Harry strode to the doors.

The store was brightly lit, Bing Crosby’s version of _White Christmas_ playing over the speakers as people frantically bustled around trying to finish their shopping before the store closed in an hour or so. Everywhere Harry looked, people’s arms were laden with bags as they picked things off the shelves as if they’d never been shopping before. The manic energy people possessed on Christmas Eve was one of the reasons Harry rarely ventured out of the house, if he could help it. 

Despite the crowds, Harry couldn’t help but feel cheered by the hustle and bustle. The heat from the overcrowded store seeped into Harry’s chilled body as he made his way past expertly crafted holiday displays of various goods for sale to the Food Hall to procure himself a trolley. 

Harry hummed to himself as the song ended and changed to _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ , his lips curling up in a smile as he turned to the side and met the confused eyes of a mum tugging her young child who was crying and begging for chocolate towards the front of the store, looking confused about why exactly Harry was smiling at her. His smile faltered, then fell when he remembered the kids were at Hogwarts and not trailing beside him ready to pile the trolley with armloads of junk. The song was James’s favorite, one he took great pleasure in singing at the top of his lungs as he danced with Lily through the crowded aisles of Marks or their living room whenever it happened to come on. A song that he sung even louder when the chorus came on and he would grab Albus around the waist and plant sloppy kisses on his cheek as he crooned about loving his baby brother and Albus acted like the world was going to end from his embarrassment. 

Shaking his head, Harry made his way down the aisle, unsure what exactly he was looking for.

Harry didn’t technically need anything, his fridge and cupboards were more than adequately stocked. Problem was, he didn’t want to eat any of the things he had at home, not when he had a sudden craving for something sweet and a decided lack of that very thing at home. 

Usually, he and the kids would’ve bought a trolleyful of treats a few days before and his house would’ve been packed to the brim with cakes and sweets and every tin of chocolate that was on sale for a fiver which Lily resolutely insisted they couldn’t pass up. Without his kids to inspire the not-real-food shopping spree, Harry had instead done his food shop early off an actual list at the beginning of the week. The problem was that meant he’d shopped rather sensibly and his house had things like yoghurt and milk and Brussel sprouts instead of the salted caramel hot chocolate Lily loved or a Colin the Caterpillar cake for James who would undoubtedly not have shared a single bite (unless Teddy was around and then James suddenly became quite generous with his cake).

Mind made up, Harry pushed his trolley in the direction of the bakery, past someone who was sighing heavily as they stared at packets of cheese sauce, as if choosing one sachet were too much for their weary heart. He swerved his trolley to the side to avoid an old man who was stood in the middle of the aisle muttering to himself frantically and looking like he might cry because apparently they were out of salt and vinegar crisps. Then Harry narrowly avoided a woman staring at a shopping list as she frantically crossed things off her list with her right hand and texted with left.

The bakery was just as crowded as the other aisles and Harry eyed up the picked-over selection of cakes. He passed up several luscious-looking ones piled with cream as well as an enticing yule log in favour of the the last Colin the Caterpillar cake, which he put in his trolley with a smile. Even though the kids were gone, Harry could still buy all their favourite things and enjoy them for himself.

Before long Harry’s cart overflowed with a packet of Percy Pigs, a tin each of Celebrations, Roses, and Quality Street, a box of caramel hot chocolate, and a bottle of eggnog cream. Satisfied with his purchases, he started walking towards the checkout when a display of Duchy originals and various jars of chutney caught his eye. Harry reached out and picked one up off the table, turning over to read the label—Sticky Fig & Balsamic Chutney. Harry thought it over for only a moment before setting it in the trolley with the rest of his food. He started to leave, then turned back to the display, noticing several other flavours. He thought back to the jars Petunia always set out for Vernon’s company dinners, especially the ones near holidays. Harry was never allowed to have even one taste. Well, he hadn’t been allowed to have a lot of things back then, but for some reason the lack of chutney had always seemed particularly unfair. But, Harry realised then, he’d been an adult with his own money for quite a long time and he could buy as many fucking jars of chutney as he wanted.

With possibly too much gusto, Harry loaded his arms with every flavour on display. He spun around, intending to deposit five jars of chutney in the trolley, when he realised there was a man staring at him.

A man with blond hair. A very familiar man with blond hair and thin lips and a pointy chin.

“Malfoy,” Harry croaked, the mass of his chutney extravaganza weighing heavily in his arms.

Malfoy cleared his throat, a box of Duchy halfway to his trolley and an unreadable expression on his face. “Potter.”

Malfoy continued to stare at Harry, who realised then there was no graceful way to set down that many jars of chutney. Instead he coughed awkwardly as he leaned over the handlebar of the trolley and dropped them in, crossing his fingers none of them would break. They fell atop his other things, the glass clanging loudly. Harry winced as they rolled to the back of the trolley and smashed his packet of Percy Pigs.

“As graceful as ever, I see,” Malfoy said, clearly finding his composure and his voice somewhere in Harry’s embarrassment.

“Fuck you,” Harry grumbled, rubbing his hands on his joggers. His words held no actual bite though, and Malfoy barked out an unexpected laugh. He and Malfoy weren’t enemies anymore, but they weren’t exactly friends. Friendly acquaintances, perhaps. Harry knew a fair bit about Malfoy from the stories Albus told in his letters and over the summer holiday. He knew Malfoy doted on Scorpius something terrible, that he’d gotten divorced last summer but that he and Astoria were apparently still on excellent terms and often still took Scorpius on joint holidays. He knew Malfoy sent Scorpius care packages once a week, as Albus often lamented that his own father didn’t make use of the owlery nearly as much.

“As eloquent, too.”

Harry rolled his eyes, eyeing up Malfoy’s trolley. There was the newly deposited box of Duchy crackers, a fancy looking chunk of cheese, a bottle of wine, some jars of olives and onions, and, to Harry’s immense surprise, an array of non-chocolate sweets including flying saucers and a bag of dolly mixture. Harry didn’t want to think too hard on the years he’d spent at Hogwarts paying too much attention to Malfoy so that he knew Malfoy preferred chocolate. 

“So what are you doing here, Potter? You buy out Honeydukes first and decide to raid Marks & Spencer next?” Malfoy’s voice was teasing and Harry found his lips curl into a smile despite himself.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that word in the last few minutes. If you’re not careful people are going to think we don’t like each other,” he said, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head towards the old woman pretending to look at chutney but very clearly eavesdropping on their conversation.

Harry turned his head and made direct eye contact with the woman. “They’re all horrible. I wouldn’t buy any of them if I were you,” Harry told her seriously, adopting the tone of voice he often used when he was lying at work.

The woman looked into Harry’s chutney-laden trolley and wrinkled her nose in an eerily familiar reminder of his aunt before snatching up the nearest jar of chutney without looking at it and angrily pushing her trolley away while muttering under her breath.

Harry turned back to Malfoy and saw him trying to hold back a laugh. Something about the entire situation was so absurd Harry found himself laughing out loud, not caring that he and Malfoy were making it very difficult for anyone to get by, or that he was apparently laughing with Malfoy, of all people, in fucking Marks.

Once they’d both stopped laughing, Malfoy turned his trolley to the side, pushing it flush against Harry’s to clear the aisle for people needing to get by, as he peered into Harry’s trolley once more. “So are you having a party, then?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Harry shook his head, a stray bit of hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back, tucking it behind his ear and promising himself he’d get a haircut next week. 

“Nah, I just,” Harry paused. He just what? Missed his children and decided to buy every single sweet they liked to make himself feel less lonely? Harry thought that would quite possibly sound even more pathetic out loud than in his head, and that was honestly saying something. “Just buying some sweets for Ron,” he lied, glad Ron wasn’t there to witness being thrown under the proverbial knight bus by his best friend to Draco Malfoy, of all people. 

“Of course,” Malfoy said politely. Harry didn’t think Malfoy believed him. 

Malfoy’s shrugged, a gesture that was surprising on someone so put together. Malfoy was wearing perfectly tailored grey trousers, shoes that look like they cost as much as Harry’s last broom, and a woolen jumper soft and white as snow. But when he shrugged his shoulders like that and stuck his hands in his pockets, he looked every bit the teenager Harry once knew, though with a face full of laugh lines Harry would’ve never expected and a lightness in his face.

Harry took the opportunity to stare at Malfoy, at the way his nose crinkled when he smiled and the way his hair fell softly into his eyes. He’d aged well and didn’t look like he was in his forties, though neither did Harry, who caught himself unconsciously puffing out his chest and sucking in his tummy, which had got a bit soft with his promotion to head Auror six months prior. Desk rotation meant a lot more sitting and a lot more crisps and muffins at his desk while he did paperwork. Not that he’d entirely let himself go; he still went for runs on Saturday mornings and occasionally held duel trainings for the new recruits. Harry’s reflexes were still sharp as a nail and he was stronger than he looked. But his stomach, well, that was definitely a bit more like a sausage roll than a pancake now. 

The moment Harry realised he was posturing, he wished he could bury himself beneath his mountain of chutney and hide. He was a grown man for fuck’s sake, not a teenager showing off for someone he fancied. Not that he fancied Malfoy. It was just that Harry might have possibly realised—over the summer when he’d had to pick up Albus from visiting Scorpius at Malfoy’s place once a week—that Malfoy wasn’t as horrible as he used to be. Granted, he was still a complete pain in the arse, still dramatic and argumentative, and drove Harry up the wall whenever they ran into each other. But he was also funny, and the little things he’d learned from Albus about the kind of father Malfoy was had slowly shifted Harry’s perception of him. So by the time Malfoy was divorced and running into Harry in Diagon Alley or the Ministry or large wizarding events, Harry was secure enough in his estimation of the other man to admit he found him more than slightly attractive. 

Fuck, Harry thought, maybe he did fancy him.

It didn’t matter though because Harry didn’t plan to do anything about it. Partly because he had no idea if Malfoy felt the same, but mostly because, while Harry had realised he was bisexual fairly early in his marriage to Ginny, it wasn’t something he’d ever planned on exploring. He’d certainly found people attractive since his divorce, but he’d not dated anyone. He made plenty of excuses about not having time, about wanting to put his children first, but Harry knew it had more to do with his fear of failing at a relationship again.

Harry had been quite happily married with his first child when he first realised he was attracted to men and women, and while on the one hand it had felt like a huge deal, on the other hand it had almost felt inconsequential since it wasn’t something he planned on exploring. But life had a way of leading Harry down unexpected paths. He never would’ve counted on him and Ginny growing apart and discovering that they worked better as friends, and he certainly hadn’t ever planned to be standing in the middle of Marks & Spencer at forty two years of age on wearing a pair of novelty Christmas joggers that were probably better left at home and wondering if you flirted with a man the same way you would as a woman. Harry figured either way he was fucked, since he couldn’t flirt for shit.

“You having a get-together tonight, then?” Harry asked suddenly, nodding towards Malfoy’s full trolley. He desperately needed to lead the conversation to safe territory and off Harry’s ridiculous ruminations. 

Malfoy shook his head, tightening his hold on his trolley. “No. Astoria is spending the holiday in France and Scorpius is staying at Hogwarts. The moment Scorpius found out Albus would be staying for break he sent me a rather lengthy letter letting me know in no uncertain terms that he would not be coming home.”

Harry bit back a smile. Albus and Scorpius were attached at the hip, more than Harry had been with Ron or Hermione, and he’d bet his every galleon in Gringotts that they were going to end up a couple, if they weren’t already. It made Harry’s chest ache when he thought about it, worrying if they’d make it for the long run the way he and Ginny hadn’t, hoping for his son’s happiness while trying not to let his own past heartbreak dampen his enthusiasm for Hogwarts-born romances. 

“Yeah, those two are quite the pair,” Harry said, wondering if Malfoy ever wondered the same thing about their sons. Harry leaned against the handlebar of his trolley as he turned his head to the side to peer at Malfoy. “Albus owled me two days ago to remind me to tell Molly he and Scorpius were staying for Christmas, I think so she would make him a jumper this year even though I’m pretty sure Albus has sent her at least a dozen letters about it this week alone.”

Malfoy made a surprised noise, rubbing his hand over his forearm. “I never thought I’d see the day where a Malfoy wore a Weasley jumper.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in surprise as he stood to his full height, opening his mouth to speak. 

But Malfoy beat him to it, holding up a hand. “No you misunderstand. It’s,” he paused, exhaling a heavy breath and looking slightly uncomfortable. “I’m very proud of my son. I’m proud of the man he’s becoming and the path he’s on. I know the things I used to say, about you and Weasley’s jumpers. I thought the fact that my parents bought all my clothing made mine better. I see now that there are things money can’t buy, that those things hold a different kind of value. I’m proud that my son knows that value.”

Harry felt shocked by the confession, and it wasn’t until his trolley was rattled by a mother trying to drag her child away from a packet of biscuits he was desperately clutching as if he’d never been fed before that Harry realised he and Malfoy were still standing in the middle of M&S having, apparently, a heart to heart.

“We should probably move,” Draco said, seemingly having just come to the same realisation and saving Harry from saying something as equally soul baring. Not that Harry felt entirely averse to sharing his thoughts with Malfoy, just preferably not in the middle of the M&S Food Hall as people scrambled to finish shopping before the shop closed. Harry’d rather lost track of the time, but he suspected from the way people were flinging things in their trolleys without even paying attention that it was nearing closing time.

“Right,” Harry agreed.

“It was good seeing you,” Malfoy said, eyeing Harry intently. Malfoy always said that when they ran into each other at Ministry events and after their brief interludes in public on behalf of their kids’ friendship. Somehow it felt different this time. There were no people watching. The words were not said on behalf of Albus or Scorpius to prove neither of their fathers begrudged their children’s friendship. Harry was sure he’d heard Draco utter that sentence at least two dozen times over the last few years, but for the first time Harry felt as if perhaps the other man actually meant it. “Merry Christmas, Potter.”

Draco held out his hand and Harry had a sudden flashback to the last time Malfoy had done that —wide eyes and a sneering face and both of them a good foot shorter. This Malfoy was decades older, taller, and though his features were just as sharp, Harry knew that behind his cool facade there was a man who’d spent years quietly atoning for his past without seeking praise or recognition for the good things he’d begun to do. A man who loved his family and put their well being above his own pride. A man Harry now realised, he very much admired. And possibly found attractive. Not that the last bit mattered, he reminded himself.

Harry let go of the trolley handle and reached to shake Malfoy’s extended hand. Malfoy’s eyes widened, almost as if he were surprised Harry had done it. His grip was strong and his skin warm.

“Merry Christmas, Malfoy,” Harry said.

Malfoy smiled, nodded his head and then pushed his trolley away, leaving Harry standing there for several long moments before the Tannoy announced that the store would be closing in five minutes. Deciding there wasn’t anything else he could possibly need, Harry made his way through the groups of people pretending they hadn’t heard the store closing announcement as they meandered around, continuing to shop.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, after realising every single queue was ridiculously long, that he circled back and ended up in the very first row. Standing directly behind Malfoy.

Harry’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. He’d already had to deal with the surprise of seeing him once, and the even greater surprise of having a somewhat pleasant exchange. Then they’d parted more politely than ever. Harry hadn’t been at all prepared to run into him again.

Malfoy didn’t notice him and Harry began to tap his fingers against the side of his trolley, unsure what casual acquaintances did in scenarios like this. It reminded him of a horribly cheesy muggle movie Lily had made him watch last year where a woman had gone back to her hometown and fallen in love with the sole clerk at the local supermarket. Harry’d spent the entire time wondering who lived in a town with that many Christmas decorations or how on earth anyone could find love at what looked like a knockoff Tescos.

Harry didn’t think his real life was going to end like a romantic comedy, but now Harry was standing behind Malfoy with a perfect view of his arse as he unloaded his trolley onto the belt and made polite small talk with the cashier, and with every passing moment Harry felt like more and more of a pillock. If he was going to say hello, he should’ve done it already; it’d look like he was purposely ignoring Malfoy. Harry couldn’t help but notice the cashier was almost done ringing Malfoy’s purchases, which meant Malfoy would go soon and when he turned to bag his items there was no way he wouldn’t see Harry. 

“That’s 70 pounds and 59 pence,” the cashier said.

Malfoy smiled and paid before moving to stand at the end of the line. If Harry had been surprised to see Malfoy pay with a Muggle debit card it was nothing to the surprise he felt at watching Malfoy pull a neatly folded reusable bag out of his other pocket. He shook it out and Harry’s eyes widened at the design on the front. The bag was pale blue and there was a photo printed on the front of a younger Malfoy and a boy who must certainly have been Scorpius. They were both smiling brightly and beneath the photo were the words World's Best Father written in bold, swirly font. Malfoy was just depositing the flying saucers into the bag when he made eye contact with Harry.

Malfoy’s cheeks colored pink in a blush. “Hello, Potter. Didn’t realise you’d been following me.”

“I wasn’t following you. It’s a free county. I can go to any queue I like,” he said, realising afterwards how petulant he sounded.

Malfoy laughed, adding the bottle of wine and the Duchy originals to his bag as the cashier began to ring up Harry’s items now that Malfoy’s were securely packed in his own bag. 

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy didn’t immediately leave; he instead leaned his hip against the end of the counter, staring at Harry.

“Perhaps you ought to steal some of Weasley’s sweets. I hear low blood sugar sometimes makes those of an advanced age a bit cranky.”

Harry blinked before realising he’d lied about who all his stuff was for. “You’re older than me, you tosspot.”

Malfoy smiled. “So you admit I’m older and wiser.”

“I absolutely never said you were wiser,” Harry disagreed, watching as his items accumulated in a pile that reminded Harry of a dragon’s treasure hoard. Well, if dragons liked Percy Pigs.

As his total grew higher and higher, Harry questioned his self control. It reminded him a bit of the time he’d tried to get Hagrid to let him buy a solid gold cauldron, or the time he’d bought out the entire trolley on his first trip on the Hogwarts Express. Impulse control was quite possibly not one of Harry’s strong suits.

“Wait a minute, where are your crackers?” Malfoy asked, eyes widening as he watched all six jars of chutney get scanned.

“Err, I didn’t buy any,” he answered, handing the cashier his card and stoutly refusing to look at the total. 

“What do you mean you didn't buy crackers to go with the chutney? What on earth were you going to eat it on? Do you have baguette at home?” Malfoy asked, looking more horrified than Harry felt the situation warranted.

The cashier cleared her throat to get Harry’s attention and he nodded his head in thanks as he snatched his reciept and moved to bag his food. Not that anything he bought constituted actual food, but Hermione wasn’t here to argue semantics with him.

“I uh...I was just going to eat it,” Harry said, realising he hadn’t answered Malfoy yet.

Malfoy made an unmistakably troubled noise as he reached past Harry, his left shoulder jostling Harry as he began to help bag the sweets while Harry worked on the chutney and wondered why six jars had seemed like a reasonable decision in the middle of the Food Hall. It was strange how much one’s sense of logic seemed to disappear when food decisions were involved.

“And by eat it you mean,” Draco trailed off, clearing his throat and taking one step back. His question hung in the air.

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead. I have some sliced bread at home. Thought maybe I’d toast it up and slap on some chutney and maybe have it with the eggnog.” Harry collected his bags and moved away from the register.

Harry fell into step beside Malfoy as they walked to the exit, their strides perfectly matched because of their equal height. Malfoy didn’t speak until they were stepping out of the double doors, the biting winter air assaulting Harry’s face as Malfoy opened his mouth to speak again.

“Slap it on some toast,” Malfoy eventually echoed in disbelief. “Potter, I cannot let you do this.”

It wasn’t until they turned to the right and began to walk down the pavement side by side that Harry realised he was following Malfoy’s lead and had no idea where they were walking, as his own home was several blocks in the opposite direction. 

“What are you going to do, Malfoy? Save me from my chutney?” Harry asked, probably not as concerned as he should be about the current turn of events and unwilling to be the first one to broach the fact that Harry was following him. It wasn’t like Malfoy had any idea where Harry lived since he’d moved after term had started and Scorpius hadn’t been to visit their new place yet. If need be, Harry was completely prepared to lie to avoid embarrassment and to prolong this conversation. It felt like ages since he’d talked to anyone besides Ron or Hermione who could hold a decent conversation. Harry wasn’t sure what it said about him that discussing chutney now qualified as _decent conversation_ , but that was one more thing he didn’t care to think about.

“Yes, well, someone needs to save you from yourself,” Malfoy said. “Clearly.”

“That someone gonna be you, then?” Harry asked without thinking.

Malfoy paused, feet skidding on the slippery pavement. Harry stopped just a foot in front of him, head tilted as he turned to watch Malfoy ponder his next words.

“Yes, I suppose it will be. Someone needs to save you from your chutney abominations and those offensive...whatever the fuck it is you have on your legs.” He raked his eyes up and down Harry’s body and Harry wished, not for the first time that evening, that he’d worn something else. Though this time for an entirely different reason, as he rather thought very thin joggers weren’t the best thing to be wearing in front of a man you found far more than passably attractive. “Are those pyjamas?” Draco added, stepping towards Harry and reaching out. He pulled his hand back at the last second. “You look ridiculous.”

_Ridiculous._

Harry barked out a laugh, his chest rumbling with the force of his laughter. Malfoy looked surprised for only a moment, then joined in the laughter. It was ridiculous that those words in particular should fill Harry with a sudden warmth, but he found his face flushing as he took in Malfoy’s red nose and bright eyes. Harry wondered what it said about him that he apparently got a bit flustered and turned on being insulted. He’d add that to his mental list of things about himself he didn’t at all care to examine. Right beside the chutney.

“I suppose you’re man enough for the job,” Harry said when he’d composed himself to speak enough. “And they’re not pyjamas. They’re joggers. James sent them to me for Christmas. He said I wore too many dad jeans, whatever the fuck that means.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

His kids were constantly complaining about the way he dressed. When the joggers arrived by owl a few days prior, Harry had snorted in disbelief, unsure if James was pulling his leg or genuinely wanted him to wear them. Of course, once his melancholy and boredom had set in at breakfast time as he’d munched on a bowl of cornflakes and bemoaned the silence in his kitchen, he’d showered and instead of putting on his favourite pair of jeans, he’d instead put on the joggers. They were grey were varying rows of festive design, including a not so subtly placed line of bells near his cock, which he was about ninety-nine percent positive was why James had got them. Truthfully they were a bit much, even for Harry, who usually took the holidays as an opportunity to buck any and all decorum and often wore gaudy Christmas jumpers to work in December. But there was definitely a difference between a red and green striped knitted jumper and trousers that looked like an exuberant elf had gone a bit bonkers.

“Right, well, we can debate the exact name of that offending article of clothing in my flat or down here on the pavement. But between you and me, I’d rather head upstairs. I’ve left the heating on and we have wine,” he said, holding up his bag of shopping and shaking it at Harry.

Right. So it wasn’t an accident that they’d walked this way together. Draco had led him here. To the street where he lived. With the sole intention, or so Harry hoped, of inviting him up.

Well, at least that solved Harry’s dilema of wondering whether Malfoy had been eyeing him up earlier in the queue. He’d figured it’d been so long since he’d fancied someone in a way that went beyond merely thinking they were attractive that he was seeing what he wanted to see.

“Are you propositioning me?” Harry asked boldly, shifting the bags from his right hand. Whatever else might happen tonight, Harry wanted to be sure they were on the same page.

“For fuck’s sake, Potter. At least let me have some wine before you go asking questions like that.” 

Draco took two step backward towards the brightly lit double doors of his building. Harry didn’t follow.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Harry asked, tightening his grip.

Malfoy sighed, but the corner of his lip pulled up. “You don’t like to make anything easy, do you, Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“Easy is overrated, anyway,” Draco answered, taking several steps towards Harry. This close, Harry could see each individual pale eyelash when Malfoy blinked and the single freckle just below his left eye. He darted his tongue out to lick his lips before he spoke again. “What would you say if I was simply asking you up for friendly chat between two old school mates whose children are quite possibly more than friends, which means we’re going to be in each other’s lives whether we like it or not, and also because we’re both possibly old enough to move forward into what might be a rather satisfying friendship?”

“I’d say yes,” Harry answered, pushing down the disappointment rising in his throat. 

“That’s good,” Malfoy answered.

Harry forced a smile on his face. Friendship was good, both for Harry and because it would mean something to Albus. The fact that Harry had let himself momentarily hope Malfoy wanted more didn’t matter. Harry was well versed in that kind of disappointment.

“And what,” Draco started, surprising Harry when he took one more step and got directly into Harry’s personal space, “would you say if I was inviting you up because, while both of those previous statements were true, my motivations were not at all angelic and I very much wanted to see you inside my flat for reasons that were neither altruistic nor platonic?”

Malfoy’s breath was warm as it condensed white in the air and ghosted across Harry’s cheek.

“I’d still say yes,” Harry answered, hope surging wildly within him like the burning flames of fiendfyre. 

“That’s even better,” Malfoy whispered. Harry couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him the way Malfoy was—not as if he was curious to know who Harry was, but as if he already knew.

Malfoy reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Harry’s ear, and despite the fact that his fingers felt like icicles, his touched made Harry’s skin burn.

“So, Potter, would you like to come up?”

“Absolutely,” Harry answered, chest fluttering at responding smile it earned him.

They didn’t speak again as they made their way into the brightly lit building and up the lift to the top floor, but there was nothing awkward in the silence. Rather it felt full of anticipation but without urgency. Not that Harry didn’t desperately want to put his hands on Malfoy’s skin or press him against the wall and kiss him, but he also very much wanted to sit in Malfoy’s flat and share a drink and good conversation. Fuck, maybe Harry was getting as old as his kids constantly told him he was.

“This is it,” Malfoy said with a dramatic wave of his arm as they stepped into Malfoy’s flat. Whatever Harry had expected, this was certainly not it. There was a fire going in the fireplace and an empty teacup on the side table near the armchair by the fireplace. Beside the cup was a pair of reading glasses and a hastily discarded blanket draped over the arm.

Draco moved to the side as Harry turned around taking it all in. Loath as he was to admit it, if asked, he would’ve guessed that Malfoy’s flat looked a bit like the Slytherin common room—dark, cold, and uninviting. Instead, it was warm in every sense of the word. Though it was furnished in plenty of monochromatic colors, there were small pops of burgundy, green, and gold in various places, from the sofa cushions to an array of artfully displayed candles on the mantel beside an array of photos of Narcissa and Scorpius. The coffee table was covered with magazines and today’s issue of the _Daily Prophet_ and there were signs of Malfoy everywhere, from the box of chocolates on the edge of the sofa to the broom propped in the far corner next to an umbrella.

The flat looked well lived in and cosy and Harry felt warm all over in a way that had nothing to do with the fire that roared to life as Draco picked his wand up off the mantel and made it go brighter.

Malfoy walked through an archway on his left that led to the kitchen and Harry padded behind him. Malfoy deposited his shopping bag on the kitchen table and Harry copied him.

“I like your bag,” Harry told him with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Malfoy paused, crackers held midair as he scrutinised Harry. “I’m not sure if you’re taking the piss or not.”

 

“I’m not taking the piss. I really do like it. It’s sweet,” Harry said, finding the idea of Malfoy using that bag more endearing than seemed possible. “So what’s the story behind it?”

Draco finished emptying the bag, folding it up neatly and depositing it in one of the small kitchen drawers near the oven. “What makes you think there’s a story?”

“I didn’t get to be head Auror by being oblivious. You kept it in your inside pocket instead of with the other bags, near your dominant hand, so it's obviously important. Despite the fact that it’s clearly a few years old, which I can tell from the faded lettering, it’s quite well kept and the fact that the handle is a shade of blue lighter than the rest means it’s worn from being held, which means you use it a lot. It’s important to you.”

Draco whistled before he Summoned two wine glasses and a bottle opener with his wand. 

“Right,” he said, uncorking the wine. “Pansy helped Scorpius make that for me when he was nine years old. I made the mistake of letting him watch a Muggle documentary on carbon footprint, waste, and global warming. Scorpius was fascinated, but mostly horrified when he realised that the majority of witches and wizards vanish their garbage without a thought to where it goes. He wanted to make a difference and insisted we start having reusable bags for our shopping and that I start bringing my own ceramic mug when I got my tea to go.”

Malfoy paused his story, pouring them each a glass of wine and taking a long sip of his as he handed one to Harry.

“Anyway, I’m not sure if Albus was has mentioned, but Scorpius, well he can be rather enthusiastic and dissaudable once he’s got an idea. It wasn’t as if I didn’t support his efforts, but I kept forgetting my bags at home. So for Christmas that year Pansy helped him make this through some Muggle company that specialises in personalized photo products. He told me I might forget my bags but I’d never forget him and so long as his face was on it I’d always remember the bag, and he was right. I never forgot it again.”

There was a wistful smile on Malfoy’s face as he took another drink of his wine and exhaled slowly.

“Scorpius seems like an amazing young man.”

“He is,” Draco breathed. “He is my life's greatest achievement. Although I shouldn’t even say that because it sounds like I’m taking all the credit for who he is and I rather think he deserves the credit for the man he’s becoming.”

Harry knew that feeling all too well. He sometimes struggled with the desire to take more than just pride in his children’s accomplishments while also recognising that, while he and Ginny might’ve helped shape who they were and the choices they’ve made, some aspects of his children were simply _them_ from the moment they were born.

“Oh I don’t know, I think you could probably take some of the credit,” Harry said, finally lifting his wine glass and taking a sip. He’d never been a fan of wine before but was surprised to discover he rather licked the lingering taste on his tongue as he swallowed it. 

Malfoy opened his mouth, then promptly shut it again before he sat down at the table, seemingly at a loss for words. 

Harry felt a thrill at having rendered him speechless and could hardly imagine the way his heart might race if he actually got his hands or mouth on Malfoy when just talking to him left Harry feeling as if he’d caught the Snitch.

“So,” Malfoy said a moment later, running one of his long fingers around the rim of his glass, “are you hungry? You’ve got an awful lot of chutney there and I’ve got crackers and a wonderful aged gouda that would pair rather nicely with the fig one.”

“Starved,” Harry answered truthfully. “Usually Lily helps me cook a big Christmas Eve lunch with all the trimmings and then we all eat until we’re so full we can barely breathe. Once we’re positive no one can eat another bite, we all go into the living room and manage to stuff ourselves with as many cakes and sweets as possible. But with all three of them at Hogwarts this year I’m afraid all I ate today was a few crumpets with my tea this morning. I couldn’t quite be bothered to cook when it was only for me.”

Harry ducked his head when he finished talking, fidgeting with the stem of his wine glass and unsure why he’d confessed so much when he’d just told Ron that morning he was fine. Draco didn’t seem surprised by his candor, instead nodding as he glanced at a photo stuck to the fridge of Scorpius waving from Platform 9 ¾.

“Growing up, Christmas Eve was always a grand affair. My mother got the house-elves to prepare a feast fit for a king and my father invited anyone for whom he wanted to show off. When Astoria and I got married we continued to visit my parents on Christmas Eve and though it was never as lavish as when I was a child, it was always more pomp and circumstance than actual family time.” Draco paused to look at his hands. “When Astoria and I got divorced, I realised how much of my life I was living a certain way because I thought I should. So Scorpius and I started a tradition. You could only eat foods on Christmas Eve that couldn’t be cooked.” He paused and gestured to the sweets and cheese and crackers in front of him. “And no fancy clothes allowed, you had to wear your pyjamas all day. I miss him quite a bit, as well. This is the first Christmas he will be away.”

“For me too, with the kids away I mean. I knew it would be weird, but I didn’t realise how—”

“How adrift you’d feel,” Malfoy finished knowingly, as if he’d felt the exact way Harry did. As if Harry were not alone.

Harry nodded, sipping his wine slowly. “This might sound crazy, I know I’ve done a lot of things in my life. But after Voldemort... it took me years to feel okay again. And James’s birth was—” Harry stopped, blowing out a breath. “Becoming a father was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Even scarier than facing death. I thought nothing could be worse...but the idea of my children outgrowing their need for me scares me more.”

Realising he’d now been more emotionally vulnerable with Malfoy than he has with even his best friends in the last few months, he lifted his wine glass and drained it. Apparently recognising Harry’s need for a distraction, Malfoy lifted his wand and muttered a spell that had the wine refilling each glass as Malfoy popped the box of crackers open.

Grateful for something to do, Harry reacheed into his own bag and dug around until he found the Sticky Fig & Balsamic Chutney. He twisted the top off, a small flare of satisfaction at the popping noise it made when the seal released.

“What else do we need?” Malfoy asked, almost to himself. “A cutting board and a knife, plates, a spoon.” He began to move around the kitchen, opening cupboards and sending things flying to the table with a flip of his wand. First a cheese board and a knife, then an array of cutlery and several plates. Wanting to be useful, Harry began to slice the cheese as Malfoy rummaged around in one of the tall cupboards looking for something.

Unable to resist the temptation, Harry picked up one of the small silver serving spoons and dipped it into the chutney, double checking Malfoy wasn’t looking before popping the spoon into his mouth. Harry’d never had chutney but he’s fantasised about it more than once and he’d somehow gotten it into his head it was a bit like jam, especially because of the fig. But what is in Harry’s mouth is nothing like the sticky globs of heaven Harry likes to slather on his perfectly buttered and toasted crumpets. No, this stuff—this stuff is bitter.

“Ugh,” Harry groaned, clearing his throat as he choked down the chutney, wondering why he’d thought he needed to take such a large spoonful.

“What’s wrong?” Malfoy asked, spinning on his heels to find Harry grimacing, chutney jar in one hand and an empty spoon in the other. Malfoy looked torn between laughing and scolding Harry. “Potter, did you eat that on a spoon?”

Harry nodded, desperately wishing he had some water to wash away the offending taste. Why the fuck had he bought six jars? He set the chutney and spoon on the table and took two steps back, as if getting physical distance from the evidence would absolve him of his guilt.

“ _Why_?” 

Harry shrugged. 

“Everyone knows chutney is a _condiment._ It needs to be paired with crackers and cheese to appreciate the flavours.”

“Can I have some water?” Harry blurted out, feeling like more of an arse by the minute. Thankfully Malfoy didn’t question his request, Summoning a cup and filling it with a quick “ _Aguamenti”_ and tap of his wand against the cup. Harry’s hand wrapped around the glass, fingers brushing Malfoy’s now warmed fingertips before he lifted it to his mouth and drained half of it in one go. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never had it. Chutney, I mean. My aunt bought it every year but I wasn’t allowed to have any as a child and I don’t know why but before this year I’d just...never bought it. I suppose I went a bit overboard.” He shrugged. “I thought it would be sweet.”

Several looks flitter across Malfoy’s face but before Harry can examine them he’s moved to stand beside Harry, leaning against his side as he picks up a cracker, places a piece of cheese on top and puts a very reasonable amount of chutney on top.

“Try it,” Malfoy told him, though he didn’t so much offer it to Harry’s hands as to his mouth. Deciding being fed by Malfoy on Christmas Eve after eating chutney out of a jar was just one more thing to add to his list of life experiences, he figured why the fuck not and opened his mouth. 

Malfoy’s surprise and pleasure registered with Harry before Malfoy’s finger brushed the top of his lip and set the cracker on his tongue. Malfoy, it turned out, was right. The bitterness of the chutney was perfectly balanced by the salty crunch of the cracker and the smooth creaminess of the cheese, and Malfoy’s eyes upon him as he chewed were as as heady as the food.

“Good?” Malfoy asked, voice catching.

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.

Malfoy cleared his throat and took two steps back, reaching for his glass of wine on the table. The high arch of his cheekbones flushed a pale pink as he drank and Harry wondered vaguely what that wine might taste like on Malfoy’s tongue, and where else he blushed. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d been attracted to someone else. He was only forty-two so it wasn’t as if he never thought about sex or had a quick wank in the shower, it was that most of his fantasies were just that—fantasies.

Malfoy though, well, Malfoy was no fantasy. He was real in every single way and Harry found himself as attracted to the small orange spot of whatever it was Malfoy must’ve had for lunch on his collar and the pile of dishes in his sink as he was to the long lines of Malfoy’s body and the not at all disguised bulge in the front of his trousers. He liked that Malfoy had photos of Scorpius around his flat and carried a _World’s Best Dad_ bag around in his pocket and he liked very much that Malfoy seemed to be as attracted to Harry as he was to him.

Harry might not have been with a man before, but he had a very good idea what he liked—someone strong enough to handle him, to give as good as he got, someone who revelled in Harry’s messy edges. Harry felt certain Malfoy was that type of man, had seen with his own two eyes that there was a quiet strength that hid beneath Malfoy’s lanky exterior and a tenacity and stubbornness that rivalled Harry’s.

Harry had never had any desire to date post divorce. He’d longed for compassionaship, missed sex, but hadn’t wanted to put himself out there again. He wasn’t a teenager any longer, trying to figure out what he liked or what he wanted out of his life. No, Harry a man with a life he already loved and the odds of finding someone who wanted to fit into the life Harry had spent decades carving out for himself were low enough that Harry didn’t bother looking. He didn’t have any desire to wade through men or women in search of something he might never find. He had his friends, his job, his home, and his children and that had felt like enough. At least until recently, when Harry had begun to wonder if there was a part of him that perhaps wanted _more._

Standing in Malfoy’s kitchen, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Malfoy’s sharp edges might align with Harry’s in ways he could’ve never imagined—if perhaps Malfoy wanted more, as well.

“I want to kiss you,” Harry said, unsure if it was the wine or his proximity to Malfoy making him feel this bold. Surely this was going too fast. Then again, neither of them had ever done anything the normal way, least of all around each other. He might not have known Malfoy the way he wanted to—how he took his tea, what made him smile, what he liked in bed (or out of it)—but he knew what kind of man Malfoy was. He knew what it took to make him break, and what it looked like when he put himself back together again. He knew what kind of father he was and what type of loyalty he gave to those who mattered. He didn’t know Malfoy in the ways a friend or lover would, but he knew him enough to know he very much wanted to know him like that.

Malfoy closed the distance between them in one long stride, every inch of his body in Harry’s personal space as his right hand slid into Harry’s hair, tangling in almost too long strands as he pulled him close. Their lips were just an inch apart, Harry’s glasses digging into Malfoy’s cheek and their lips so close he could almost taste him already.

“I want you to kiss me,” Malfoy breathed. “Very much.” His eyes were so clear, almost undetectable flecks of brown visible this close. Harry wanted to memorise him, wanted to be able to close his eyes and remember this moment forever.

“Potter,” Malfoy whispered, his lips tugging up in the corner as if he were amused by Harry’s inability to move. The tips of his fingers stroked the back of his head, a feeling so intimate Harry shuddered. _Fuck_ , how long had it been since someone had touched him—not as family or friends, but as a lover. 

“Fuck,” Harry cursed before surging forward with more force than was necessary.

Malfoy started, letting out an _oomph,_ but to Harry’s pleasant surprise he remained immoveable, more than capable of steadying Harry as he wrapped his left arm around Harry’s waist and his fingers tightened their hold in his hair, enough Malfoy’s nail grazed his scalp.

There was a sureness in the way Malfoy kissed, as if he knew exactly what Harry could handle. There was nothing tentative or questing, but rather the quiet confidence of a man who also knew exactly what he wanted.

Harry didn’t know exactly what he’d expected to happen the first time he kissed a man. He wasn’t even sure he ever would. Maybe he’d spent too many years building it up in his head, worrying he’d like it too much or not enough and it might shatter the identity he’d built in his mind. To his immense relief, however, it turned out kissing a man was everything and nothing like kissing a woman. Malfoy’s body was firm against his chest, his thin lips warm and pliant as they moved against Harry’s. It was as if something clicked into place for Harry as they kissed, not because the hard planes of a man’s body beneath his hands were superior to the softness of a woman’s body, but because he knew that no matter who he loved it wasn’t going to change anything about his sexuality.

It occurred to Harry then that perhaps he’d avoided dating since his divorce because not only was he worried he’d never find the right person, but he was worried about what the gender of whomever he might fall in love with would mean about the sexuality he’d begun to so closely identify with—it might shatter his sense of bisexuality. If he fell in love with a woman again, would it would it mean he was less bi than he’d thought he was for years? And if he was with a man, would it make him feel as if his past experiences hadn’t been what he thought? 

But as Malfoy continued to kiss him, both his hands now roaming down Harry’s back to slip beneath his jumper, it occurred to Harry that he was the same person with or without anyone else. Liking the way it felt to be with a man didn’t diminish how much he’d once enjoyed being with a woman. It wasn’t about one or the other being superior, just different. 

Kissing Malfoy wasn’t a revelation, but it was fucking incredible. 

Harry liked the sounds Malfoy made when he nipped at his bottom lip, he liked the way he tasted of wine and he sure as fuck liked the way they moved together as Malfoy began to rock against him slowly, not enough for Harry to get any pressure on his own rapidly hardening cock, but enough for him to know that Malfoy was in a similar state of arousal. 

“Is this too fast?” Malfoy mumbled in between kisses as he dragged his nails just above the waistband of Harry’s joggers.

“No,” Harry answered immediately, walking Malfoy backward until Malfoy’s back hit the fridge. “This is fucking fantastic.” Harry yanked on the shirt beneath Malfoy’s jumper and pulled it out of his trousers, giving him full access to all of Malfoy’s warm skin as his hand slipped underneath, palms splaying on the flat of Malfoy’s stomach, which was warm and soft. “This is good.” 

Harry continued to kiss Malfoy, panting into his mouth as he began to grind his erection against Malfoy’s, delighting in the groan of surprise the other man emitted. 

“Fuck, can we go faster?” Harry asked, squeezing a bit of Malfoy’s stomach and delighting in the feel of hard muscle beneath the softness.

Malfoy huffed out a quiet laugh against the corner of Harry’s lips as he mouthed his way across the stubble on Harry’s cheek and jaw until his bottom lip was dragging up the shell of Harry’s ear. “You’re impatient.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Harry confessed, finding it surprisingly easy to tell Malfoy things.

Malfoy stilled, pulling back to look at Harry. “You have _three_ children.”

Harry snorted. “Well yeah, I’ve done this. I mean—I’ve never done this with a man.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Is that a problem?” Harry asked, hands still planted on Malfoy’s stomach. He wished he hadn’t said anything, since he very much wanted to go back in time to twenty seconds ago when Malfoy was sucking on his earlobe and his fingers were about to dip below Harry’s waistband.

“I have,” Malfoy said, his expression careful. Kind. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Done this before. With men and women. I’m not looking to be someone’s experiment, Potter. If that’s all this is, tell me now. We can go back to being friends and no harm done but—”

Harry smoothed his fingers down the quivering muscles of Malfoy’s stomach. “But what?”

“I want more than that. I just need to know. I’m not asking for promises. I just need to know we’re on the same page.”

Harry nodded, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to the side of Malfoy’s jaw, closing his eyes and inhaling the musky scent of his cologne. “We’re definitely on the same page.”

Malfoy exhaled a shuddering breath, the arm around Harry’s waist squeezing as he rubbed their cheeks together before resuming his exploration of Harry’s ear with his mouth.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, hands slipping down to fist the top of Malfoy’s trousers, his knuckles grazing Malfoy’s hip bones as the material bunched in his fingers.

Malfoy bucked his hips into Harry. Teeth bit down a bit too hard on his earlobe and fuck, Harry liked that. “Fuck, Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrected, popping open the button and tugging the zipper down on Malfoy’s trousers as Malfoy curled his fingers around Harry’s waistband and shoved the joggers down below the swell of his arse. 

Harry’s cock sprung free at the same moment he got his hand inside Malfoy’s pants to wrap around Malfoy’s cock. It was hot beneath his hand, the soft skin and firm hardness somehow both familiar and entirely unknown. Harry had a cock of his own, he knew exactly how they worked, or his own at least—knew how to pleasure it, how to draw out an orgasm or make it come fast. 

But this was different. This was Malfoy. No, _Draco._

Draco, who has his hand wrapped around Harry’s cock and was stroking him as if he knew exactly what Harry liked—his pace unstoppable as Harry’s cock began to leak precome all over the curl of Draco’s fingers, making the friction all the more satisfying. 

Draco, whose own cock slid just as easily through Harry’s hand. Stroke, twist, stroke. The angle was different, the weight of Draco’s cock not at all like Harry’s when he did this to himself, but Harry knew it can’t be all that different so he sped up his strokes and thumbed the slit, delighting in the way Draco’s mouth fell open in a breathy moan.

Draco, who laughed like he knew what joy is despite knowing pain. Draco, who has seen the darkest, pettiest parts of Harry and the best and brightest of him and who looked at Harry as if he were just a man—just Harry.

“Harry,” Draco whispered again, his lips descending onto Harry’s.

“Close,” Harry mumbled into the kiss, his own strokes faltering as pleasure curled in the pit of his stomach. He was so close.

“Come for me,” Draco said against his lips, the kiss turning sloppy as Draco stroked harder. Faster. “Come.”

And come Harry did, spilling onto Draco’s hands and across the front of his perfect trousers as Harry stuttered out a gasp. Draco swallowed the sound greedily, his free hand grasping Harry’s arse and yanking him in close as Draco continued to stroke him until Harry’s entire body thrummed, feeling as if he might implode if Draco stopped touching him, or if he stopped touching back.

“Nngh,” Harry grunted, eyes closed and hand held loosely and unmoving around Draco’s very hard cock. Still Draco kissed him, lips gentle and curious as he kissed the very breath from Harry.

Draco pulled out of the kiss, resting his forehead against Harry’s. “There are three options here. One, it’s been a long time since you did something like that and your state of coherency is a direct result of repressed sexual gratification.”

Harry grunted, beginning to stroke Draco’s cock again but slower this time, unhurried. His eyes remained shut.

“Two,” Draco gasped as Harry tightened his grip but kept his strokes slow, “I’m amazing and should be very proud of rendering you speechless.”

“What’s option three?” Harry asked, mouthing at the corner of Draco’s mouth.

“Three, oh fuck—I forget what option three is, just keep doing that,” Draco groaned, digging both hands into Harry’s arse as Harry kissed his way down Draco’s neck to suck at the curve of Draco’s shoulder. Harry stroked in earnest, speeding up the pace and twisting his wrist at the downstroke. It didn’t take long, just a few minutes of Harry’s hand on Draco’s cock and his mouth on Draco’s neck before Draco fell over the edge.

Draco dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder, panting heavily. A rush of happiness swelled through Harry as he whispered a wandless cleaning charm.

“Fucking show off,” Draco said, his laughter rumbling against Harry’s chest.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Harry said, tucking Draco’s cock in and doing up the zip and button.

Draco lifted his face from Harry’s shoulder and grinned as he yanked the joggers and Harry’s boxers up in one go, making Harry stumble. “I like it a lot.”

“That’s good. You should probably get used to me being better at everything.”

Draco snorted loudly. “Absolutely not.”

Harry couldn't help it, he laughed. “Fuck, you’re fun.”

“I’m a lot of things,” Draco answered cheekily, arms winding around Harry’s neck.

“Like what?” Harry asked, reaching his own arms around Draco’s waist.

“Guess you’ll just have to stick around and find out.”

“Guess I will.”

“So now what?” Draco asked.

Harry turned his head to glance at the table, still piled high with bags from Marks and smiled. “Now I show you the right way to eat a Colin the Caterpillar cake and play a game of How many Percy Pigs can you fit into your mouth.”

“I thought those things were for Weasley,” DrRaco said with a raised eyebrow, finger twirling in the hair at the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry had the decency to blush. “I might have possibly lied. Just a little bit.” He ducked his head, staring at the bottom of Draco’s shirt that hung out beneath his jumper. “I missed my kids and thought if I told you I’d gone to the supermarket to buy all their favourite things that you’d think I was pathetic.”

“Harry, I went to Marks & Spencer and bought Flying Saucers and Dolly Mix, both of which are absolutely revolting by the way, just because I miss Scorpius. If you’re pathetic, than so am I.”

“I guess that makes us a perfect match,” Harry joked, but it earned him a smile as Draco’s other hand moved to cup his face.

“I guess it does,” Dracohe whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goldentruth813) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813).


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